


Devotion

by Bennyhatter



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author means no offense to anyone, Daryl is a teenager so like seventeen, Daryl runs to the forest to escape, I literally don't know how to tag this, M/M, Pagan Themes, Rick is a God, no literally he's a god in this, tw: abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rick is the God of the forest Daryl hunts in, and Daryl has been leaving him offerings for years with no idea who he's offering them to.</p><p>And then feelings happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> So I mentioned in Scattered Ashes that I was being plagued by an idea for a Rickyl fic. Well, this was the idea.
> 
> I feel like I want to write more in this 'verse. Like, I had this awesome idea for Rick's "true" form and everything. This was honestly just going to be smut, but then my muse went an entirely different direction and I actually like it a lot better this way.
> 
> Still kinda wanna write them having sex, and other things. I dunno. What do you guys think?
> 
> I'm gonna go actually work on the next chapter for Two Tickets, now. I just had to finish this first.

Daryl has always found the forest far more peaceful because of its honesty. There is no deeper meaning hidden behind false interest—no apathetic masks that hide the scorn he’s done nothing to warrant other than being from a family that’s infamous for its shortcomings. The forest is brutal in its truths, where what you see is what you get and there’s no dancing around the feelings of others for fear of saying the wrong thing and offending them. It houses predators and prey with only survival in mind. There’s no desire to judge and undermine; to extend the offer of help with no intention of ever being there to follow through.

In the forest, none of the inhabitants look at Daryl like he’s lesser, like the bruises that paint his skin and the odd hitch he sometimes walks with means he’ll never have the privilege to rise above his circumstances and make something better out of himself.

At school, the teachers all look at him with weary resignation, knowing the reason behind the damage they see but numbed to what it represents after grueling years in a thankless job where abuse victims come and go like the changing of the seasons. They’d rather show frustration when he fails to hand in his homework yet again, or when his tests are submitted practically blank because his fingers were taped together and it hurt too much to pick up his pencil. Through them the cycle is continued, their words not harsh enough to cut skin already beyond used to being lacerated but still enough to grind the feeling of helpless failure deeper into Daryl’s marrow until nothing short of setting himself on fire will burn the worthlessness away.

Out here, surrounded by nature and free from the crippling restraints of society, Daryl is immune to pain and the fear of his mere existence evoking more agony from uncaring fists or an unforgiving belt. There is no pain for him amongst the trees, just the sweet smell of Georgia and the crisp mountain-fed spring that chills his toes when he kicks off his boots and steps into the water. He cups his hands and lets the stream run over his fingers, the frigid temperature numbing his flesh but making him feel alive at the same time as he brings some of it up to his mouth and drinks deeply. There is no better taste than this, the water trickling down his throat pure and untouched by the manufactured labels of a money-driven humanity.

Once he’s satisfied, he steps back onto the bank and feels the cool mud squish between his toes and conform to his arches. He wants to run through the forest without his shoes, carried along by the teasing winds and letting them tug him whichever directions they desire. His feet are tough enough to handle it, but he didn’t come out here just for pleasure today.

Promising himself that he’ll run another time, Daryl pulls his socks back on without bothering to rinse his feet first and slides back into his boots. The comforting weight of his crossbow against his back is so familiar that he can easily forget it’s there sometimes. Right now, though, it has a purpose to serve, so he pulls his weapon from its resting place and sets it against the ground to draw and load it. The way he learned is dangerous, and he’s caught his fingers more than once trying to haul the bowstring back far enough for it to lock. Those are the scars he wears proudly, the marks of his self-sufficiency that no one but he is the cause of. They’re nothing like the burns and whipping scars that mar his back, or the jagged lines that distort the flesh on his chest and stomach from the times his dad and his buddies couldn’t be bothered with unbuckling first and just grabbed whatever was closest.

Putting everything from his mind but what is most important, Daryl checks the ground quickly until he finds the faint tracks from a passing rabbit. If he’s lucky, he’ll catch some squirrels too, and even though he knows it’s dangerous to be gone for too long, he’s tempted to build a small fire and cook everything out here. Maybe he’ll do it anyway and hope that his dad is too drunk to notice what time he makes it home.

Smiling faintly at the thought of this small independence, he follows the tracks until he spots his prey and shoots the rabbit before it’s ever the wiser to the fact that he’s there. It’s an instant kill, no need for the creature to suffer, and he collects it as well as his bolt; tucks the rabbit into the bag at his side he brings for exactly this reason and focuses his attention on the branches above him.

Two squirrels join the rabbit, and he decides to throw caution to the wind just this once and finds a good place to build a fire. He clears the ground of everything that could possibly catch and start an uncontrollable blaze before digging a shallow pit and hunkering down with kindling and twigs to get started.

Daryl was never a Cub Scout—has never been part of any group in his entire life—but he learned the art of survival and practicality from Merle before his idiot brother got caught with a dashboard covered in coke and more tucked into the glove compartment. He can’t even say he’s that surprised about it—Merle sure wasn’t, considering he’s spent most of Daryl’s life locked up for one thing or another. It was just the way their lives were always meant to play out—the curse of the Dixon name, that no one expects anything from them but perpetual failure and all of them are too beaten down and exhausted from suffocating beneath the weight of those expectations to strive for anything different.

After he’s got the fire going strongly enough to be sure it won’t flicker and die, he lays his kills out on a nearby rock and carefully prepares them. Their blood is as familiar to Daryl as his own, the slick red liquid that gave them life smearing across his tattered flesh and sinking into the grooves of his scars as he carefully pulls skin from muscle and separates the organs from everything else. What he can’t eat gets scattered around for scavengers to find—his own little way of giving back that which he has taken. When he gets to the livers and hearts, he pauses for a moment and then lays them carefully on another rock, positioning them in a little lopsided pyramid and staring at the offering for a moment before licking his lips and getting back to work.

Daryl has never believed in God, not in the way churches and fanatical men on street corners do. He doesn’t spend a few hours every Sunday sitting on an uncomfortable pew in his nicest clothes listening to a man in robes drone on and on about sins and forgiveness and too many other things that so few of those good, Christian folk actually practice. No, nature has always been his church, the security and shelter of the trees the only sanctuary he willingly falls to his knees in. Prayer has never played a role in anything he does, but his desire to give back in a small way has always been strong. This isn’t the first time Daryl has left vital organs laying around for whatever found them first, and he likes to think—in the privacy of his own head, where no one can mock him for it—that he’s left offerings of his kills in thanks to the creatures that died so that he could live.

By the time the meat is cooked and cool enough for him to eat without searing his mouth, the sun is starting to dip low and slant through the branches in a way that enhances shadows that will only reach further as night descends. Leaning back against a sturdy trunk, Daryl pulls the meat from bones that he lays to the side with the intention of using in some way, shape, or form. The skins have already been draped over a low-hanging branch, waiting for him to collect them and take them back home with him. He’ll clean them and dry them and make something out of them, because while Merle didn’t teach him everything in the few months they had to roam the forest together, Daryl is smarter than most people give him credit for and he knows how to use the internet. He can make needles out of some of the smaller bones, and figure out uses for the rest. Either that, or he can lay them out on rocks too, leaving them behind for the wildlife as offerings to cubs or kits that need to chew or anything else that might find them useful.

 _Self-sufficient,_ he thinks tiredly, feeling like his limbs are made of lead as the food fills his belly and makes him sleepy. He barely finishes off the last of the rabbit, sucking the grease and lingering taste of the wild meat from his fingers before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He’s already beyond late, so what’s five more minutes in the grand scheme of life? It’s not like the beatings ever vary in intensity whether he’s two minutes late or two hours. He’ll rest for five minutes, and then he’ll go home.

Daryl’s already asleep before he even finishes his thought.

 

 

 

Opening his eyes, he blinks and brings up a hand to rub at them; drops it to stifle his yawn against the side of his wrist as he pushes up from where he’s curled over onto his side. There’s a stick digging into his hip, the pressure uncomfortable and edging into pain. He can hear the merry crackle of his fire, and the realization that he fell asleep without dousing it first clears away the last of the sleep clinging to his eyelashes. He jackknifes into a sitting position, wide awake and wide-eyed, cursing himself in every way he can think to as he looks to make sure he hasn’t fucked up beyond repair.

“Calm down, young hunter. The forest will thrive another lifetime. You have damaged nothing.”

The voice alarms him, and he looks across the fire to the man sitting there. He’s leaning forward, his legs crossed Indian-style and the fire clearly highlighting the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. The pants he’s wearing are loose and flowing— _hippy shit,_ as Merle would say. The color may or may not be green, but in the dark with nothing but the flickering flames to see by, he can’t be sure. Eyes that reflect the ember tongues pierce into him, and Daryl feels like the man can see everything he is all the way down to his marrow and the fragmented remains of his soul. There’s an aura rolling off of the man that he’s never felt from anyone before, and it reminds him of the forest around them—peaceful but so easily able to turn lethal of one does not tread carefully.

“Who the fuck’re you?” he spits as he scrambles to his feet. His shoulders ache from the position he’d been sleeping in, and the ground hasn’t done him any favors. Despite the aches, though, he feels rejuvenated in a way he’s not used to—like just being out in nature rather than curled up on his worn-out bed, surrounded by four walls and a roof he cannot stand but is unable to leave, has given something to him that he never realized he was missing.

“Who am I?” the man asks. He tilts his head back to look at Daryl, who keeps himself very, very still when he’s the sole target of those intense eyes. He feels like one of the rabbits he hunts, frozen in fear and the hope that the beast he sees will not make a meal of him. There is danger that crackles around the man, every movement precise and calculated. When he runs a hand back through his hair, fingers snagging slightly on the curling ends, Daryl shudders and sucks in a breath like he’s coming up for air after diving to the bottom of a pond. “First I wish to ask you something.”

“The hell you wanna know?” Giving in to his restlessness, he paces on his side of the fire, never going farther than three steps from his crossbow so he’ll have time to grab it if things get out of hand. The first thing he should have done when he woke up to a half-naked man sitting at his fire was run as fast as he could back home, but despite how wary he feels and how out of his comfort level he is, something tells him that this man will not hurt him. He’s not sure why he knows it, or _how_ , but he’s in no danger. Still, it pays to play it safe.

“Why do you leave organs when you are offering them to no one in particular?”

The question catches him off guard, and Daryl stops to hunker down and peer through the dancing flames at the other man. He feels like he’s looking at a God like this, and the thought sends a shiver down his spine at the same time that the stranger’s dark eyes seem to flash. For a brief second, the fire jumps even higher and he thinks he sees the shadowy forms of enormous antlers against the backdrop of the trees, but then he blinks and they’re gone. He must be even more tired than he thought, if he’s seeing shit like that.

“Dunno,” he mutters, looking away from that penetrative stare and rolling one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “Just feels like the right thing ta do.”

“You leave offerings because it feels like the right thing to do?” A smile pulls at full lips, and Daryl tries not to notice the exact shape of them and how soft they look compared to the man’s beard. “You are a curious one, little hunter.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” Daryl spits. It’s probably the nicest thing a stranger has ever called him, but he still feels out of his element right now, and his default reaction when he’s unsure is always aggression.

“What would you like me to call you, then?”

“How about my name.” Jesus, what’s with this guy?

“Then what is your name?”

That smile never leaves, the man’s voice soft like rolling hills and deep like fathomless lakes. Daryl’s legs are starting to ache from holding himself in his crouched position, so he falls back onto his ass and adopts the same kind of relaxed posture the stranger has taken. He tries as hard as he can to ignore the way shadows play over those broad shoulders and enhance the lines of his collarbones. God, he’s never seen anyone who looks like this before; not at home and sure as hell not in the locker rooms at school. All of those boys are still gangly and growing into themselves, and the ones that do have muscle have almost too much for their body type or their size. This man is perfectly proportioned, though, not an ounce of fat anywhere it doesn’t need to be. When he shifts a little, leaning back on his hands, Daryl’s eyes drop to the sinful ‘v’ of his hips and he immediately snaps his gaze back to the fire.

“Daryl,” he whispers, breathing his name like he’s revealing a precious secret and trying to ignore the way his cheeks are burning. He’s never been that interested in people before, has never really cared what others look like because why should he when they’re hardly present in his life to begin with, and more often than not too eager to leave when they cross his path in any situation.

“Daryl,” the man repeats, and the way he rumbles the teenager’s name makes his hands clench around his knees and his toes curl in his boots. No one has ever said his name like that, like it means something far more than it ever should. No one who looks like the man across from him should _want_ to be near Daryl, because he’ll drag him down into the filth he wallows in, and such perfection should never be marred by something so ugly.

“It is my pleasure to have met you, Daryl.”

Feeling suddenly shy, he ducks his head and drops a hand to the ground, digging his finger into the soil and drawing random patterns; uncaring of the gritty dirt that lodges itself beneath his nail. “You gonna tell me your name yet? And maybe what the hell you’re doin’ out in the middle’a the woods watchin’ a teenager sleep?”

“What do you think my name is?” The stranger has that odd smile on his face again, one that is playful but not at all malicious. This feels like a game, but one that has no losers. Daryl can’t figure out what the end goal is, but he finds himself tilting his head and giving the question a moment of honest consideration rather than lashing out the way he normally would when he feels like he’s being mocked. There is none of that here, and the longer they talk the more relaxed he feels. It’s a peace he only ever finds when he’s alone in the forest, so to feel it here, in the presence of this man, is both curious and surprisingly soothing.

“Dunno. Ya kinda look like a Rick t’ me.” Actually, he’s not sure what the man looks like his name would be, but Rick is the first name that comes to mind. It’s somewhat fitting, while at the same time not at all sounding right. This man should have a name that is powerful just like he is, something unique and uncommon that grown men whisper to one another in the dark in trepidation. He looks like someone who should be worshipped not out of fear, but out of adoration—a man capable of powerful acts of vengeance but flowing smoothly like a rippling creek that just begs to be touched and drank from.

“Then I would be honored if you would call me Rick.”

“The hell’re you playin’ at, seriously? Are you high or something?”

“Why do you come to the forest, Daryl?” Rick asks, bringing their conversation away from suspicion and back to curiosity. “You come here a lot, to feel comfortable enough to sleep with predators always lurking.”

“The forest don’t lie,” he replies, shrugging. “If I’m gonna die, there ain’t gonna be any suspense or stupid fuckin’ wasted time. What I see is how things are. I like that. I like the danger and the beauty and how easily they coincide with one another.”

“You like the balance.” Rick nods and looks pleased, like out of all the answers that could be given, Daryl’s has made him the proudest. “Is that why you leave the offerings?”

Dragging his nail across the ground in front of him, Daryl looks down and chews on his lower lip. “I leave ‘em as thanks,” he whispers, parting with this new secret as easily as breathing. “’Cause this forest has fed me more times than I can remember, and I want to thank it. It’s kept me alive through the years, and it deserves something as compensation. So I leave the organs.”

It’s so easy to talk to Rick, because there is no judgement. He isn’t laughed at and called stupid for doing the things he does. Right here, bathed in firelight and touched by darkness, he’s not at all concerned about being late or what his father’s going to do once he gets his hands on Daryl. He feels too much like he’s already in the home he was always meant to have, where nothing evil can tarnish him and he’s free to be as light as the air and as grounded as the trees. He can make his own path like the rivers, guided along with a sure hand but left to tumble happily and give life to those who come searching for it.

“A long time ago, people always used to leave tokens of their gratitude to the forests and the plains.” Rick’s voice drops low, deepening to a register that makes Daryl look up and give him his full attention, because he hears echoes of ancient knowledge and power that reaches back to a time where things were done with purpose and not greed. “They left a portion of their kills to the Gods to thank them for the bounty. Never did they take more than their fair share, and always did they leave the best pieces in thanks.”

“Sounds like times were better then,” Daryl murmurs, his voice barely a whisper because he feels like anything louder will shatter the moment and leave him cut to pieces by the shards.

“They were,” Rick agrees. “Men had faith, and respect. They never forgot where they came from, or how easily their folly could lead to their deaths. You, little hunter, are like those men. You honor the sacrifice of those you kill, and you honor the Gods with the richest portions. You are truly a marvelous anomaly in a world that has become bitter and cruel.”

“Ain’t never believed in God.” Biting his lip again, he glances from Rick to the fire and swears he can see the flames morphing into galloping elk and soaring eagles. He sees trees and wolves and bears, sees men with spears and bows and feels a pang of familiarity echo from somewhere in his chest. How many days has he done exactly that? How many times has he come home from school only to drop his backpack on his bed, pick up his crossbow, and vanish into the sanctuary of this forest just to be able to feel something that wasn’t hopelessness and failure? He will never belong in society, will never fit in even if he cared enough to try, but amongst the trees he has no need to try, because he blends into nature as seamlessly as breathing.

“A singular entity like they preach about in Church, no. I do not fault you for that. There is no singular creator—there can’t be. The world is too vast, too wonderful, to be formed by only one pair of hands. No, such care and beauty has many forms of deities, and all of them serve a purpose. Many have been lost to time, but more have adapted and continue to show themselves in little ways. Their names may have changed through the centuries, but they are still the same beings. They still do the same things and search for those with souls that answer to theirs.”

“You sound like you know a lot about this,” Daryl manages to get out around a yawn. He stretches out on his side, propping his head up on his hand and looking at Rick from a different angle. He can see the man’s feet like this, how dirty the soles are like he never bothers to wear shoes. “You study the gods or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Rick agrees vaguely. “For now, though, I think it’s time you get back to your home, little hunter. The night is late, and there are things I must see to.” When he stands up, it’s graceful and fluid, his pants billowing like they’re being tugged this way and that by a breeze Daryl cannot feel. He sits up quickly, trying not to pout, because as cautious as he was at first, he finds he’s really been enjoying this conversation. He’s been enjoying Rick’s company, and hearing that the man is leaving makes him panic a bit. It’s not lost to him that his first thought in response to Rick’s comment about going home was the thought of _but I am home._

“You’re leaving?” he asks, hearing how small his voice sounds and hunching his shoulders as he curls into himself a little.

“I must, Daryl, and you must as well. Do not worry, though. I believe we shall see one another again.”

It’s that assurance more than anything that makes Daryl get up and kick dirt over the fire to smother it, using a sturdy stick he finds nearby to mix the coals up so that he’s absolutely sure they’re dead. Rick watches with interest, the faint light of the moon making his eyes shine.

“Will you be all right finding your way through the dark? The forest comes alive in a whole new way once the sun has set.”

To hear such concern about his well-being is touching instead of irritating, and Daryl nods shyly as he picks up his crossbow and settles it in its rightful place across his back. He tugs on the strap, feeling self-conscious and nervous, because if he leaves then that means that this time he’s spent with Rick will be over, and he’ll be forced to wade through the mire of school with people he can’t care about enough to pay attention to.

“Will I see you again?” It’s whispered like a prayer, the words tumbling from him like the wind has curled into his throat and coaxed them free. He wants to snatch them back, but the wind is wild and cannot be caught so easily. Anyone who would try is all the more foolish for it.

“I believe you will, my little hunter. Go now, though. Your passage out of the forest will be peaceful, I promise you. No harm shall ever come to you when you are amongst these trees.”

Those words sound more important than his tired brain can process, so Daryl nods and hesitates for only a moment before he turns and walks away, feeling Rick’s eyes caressing the nape of his neck until the man is out of sight, although the feeling of being watched lingers with him until he’s out of the forest and heading toward home.

 

 

 

It’s almost a week before Daryl steps foot in the forest again, because he had to give his bruises and lashes time to heal, and his shoulder hurt so much from being slammed repeatedly into the doorjamb that he couldn’t load or lift his crossbow. Even now it still aches, but he can’t stay away for even an hour longer. He’s felt something calling him back ever since the night he sat at the fire with a stranger he knew only as Rick, and only because that was the name he had given him. He’s eager to see if he runs into the man again, and he fervently hopes that he does. He wants to see Rick in the sunlight, to look at his features in the daytime and see what color his eyes really are.

The guilty part of Daryl wants to see Rick lit up by the sun and see if he really is as perfect as the firelight made him appear. It’s a thought that has fueled him through many long nights, his cock hard in his hand and his gasps muffled in his pillow as he thought of eyes that were as dark as they were gentle, and a sense of power that crackled like electricity and rolled like thunder. Rick’s voice has even followed him into his dreams, and Daryl always wakes from those feeling more at peace than he ever has inside the walls of his father’s house.

Today is Saturday, which means there’s plenty of time for him to roam and explore and hunt, and he plans on taking full advantage of the day. The first thing he does is catch his lunch, which is an opossum. He finds the same spot he built his fire last time and cleans away the leaves that have scattered across the shallow pit and the charred remains of the logs. It takes hardly any time at all before he’s got the fire going, a smile on his face and his chest feeling lighter than it has since the last time he prowled through the trees.

Skinning and gutting the opossum, he sets aside the liver, heart, and even the kidneys this time. There’s a faint stain remaining on the rock he set the last offering on, and he places this one in the exact same spot; stares at the pyramid of organs with a smile on his face and nods in satisfaction before he scatters what he can’t consume and sets up a spit to cook what he can.

Leaning back against the same tree he chose last time, Daryl stretches out one of his legs and leaves the other bent so he can prop his arm on it. He can still see the fading ring of bruises around his wrist—can still feel a slight ache every time he inhales too deeply and it pulls at the lashes on his lower back. The pain is unimportant right now, a distant thought that gets farther away the more he relaxes and watches the way squirrels leap from branch to branch high above his head. Birds are chattering and fluttering around, and every once and a while he sees the shadow of a hawk or a crow as it flies above the canopy.

“I was beginning to think you would not return, my little hunter.”

Daryl’s face breaks into a wide grin as he looks toward the direction of Rick’s voice. It’s highly unusual for him to be so happy to see anyone after having only met them once, but his eyes eagerly take in every aspect of Rick—everything from his bare chest to his dark blue eyes and the rich dark chocolate curls that tumble freely about his head. He’s wearing the same loose pants as before, and Daryl was right about the color. The dark green fabric looks incredibly comfortable, and he wonders if it keeps the man cooler than the thicker denim of jeans.

“Told you not ta call me that,” he retorts, but there’s nothing in his answer that speaks of annoyance. He actually kind of likes the nickname—likes the little hint of possession in the fact that Rick calls him _his_ hunter in a voice that never fails to send shivers down his spine. The familiar spark of warmth curling in his gut makes him want to squirm, but he’s too busy watching the way a slow, delighted smile spreads across Rick’s face when he notices the offering Daryl has left and comes closer for a better look at it.

“There was more intent to this one,” the man says, cocking his head to the side. “Your placement is precise, like you thought about how you wanted it to look instead of just leaving it however it ended up.” Those fathomless blue eyes glance his way, warm and fond and swirling with something that makes Daryl’s scalp prickle. “What has changed since the last time?”

“Thought about what you said.” Daryl licks his lips, trying to moisten them with the little bit of saliva he has, because suddenly his mouth feels as dry as the desert and his palms are a little sweaty. “About Gods and offerings and all of that. Thought it sounded like a pretty good deal, and it made a hell of a lot more fuckin’ sense than the shit I used to hear in church when my parents dragged me’n my brother there.”

“So you’re leaving an offering to the Gods. May I ask which ones?”

Something about the question feels weighted to Daryl, but not in a way that makes him feel afraid of giving a wrong answer. He has a feeling that no matter what he says, Rick will still smile at him the same and call him his little hunter and nothing will have changed in any way that is at all terrifying or monumental. Still, Daryl feels like a lot is riding on how he answers, and he’s not sure why, but it’s not panic-inducing and the words come easily when he pulls his lunch off the spit and sets it aside to cool. Drawing his legs up against his chest, he wraps his arms around them and props his chin in the valley between his knees.

“This forest,” he says, using his eyes to encompass all of it, from the tiniest pebble to the oldest tree. “Does it have any Gods that watch it?”

“It has one, yes,” Rick agrees.

“Does he have a name?” Daryl brings his thumb up to his mouth and starts to chew on his cuticle, a nervous habit he’s never been able to shake.

“He does. He has many names, actually.”

“What are his names?”

Rick sits closer to him today than he did that first night, folding his legs beneath him and watching Daryl with eyes that sparkle like a lake touched by sunlight. His skin is tanned by constant exposure to the sun, and there isn’t a scar or a blemish anywhere on him that Daryl can see, aside from a smattering of freckles down his arms and across his shoulders.

“Too many to convey,” he chuckles, and Daryl frowns a little, because that isn’t the answer he was hoping for.

“Well, which one does he go by the most?”

Rick picks up a handful of leaves and lets the wind blow them out of his open palm, watching the way they twirl and flutter as they descend to the ground again. Daryl tries to wait patiently, but he’s burning with the need to know, to put a name to the thought of a God attached to a place that means so much to him.

“Is the offering for him?”

The way Rick asks the question, his eyes bright and his pupils widening, makes Daryl squirm in a way he can’t stop this time.

“Yes,” he whispers, blushing and ducking his head so the long strands of his bangs fall over his eyes. Rick makes a sound in response to that, and suddenly there are long, careful fingers combing through his hair and pushing his bangs back so that his eyes are visible when Rick ducks his head to find them.

“What would you like his name to be?” he asks, and something about the question reminds Daryl of the night he met Rick and the way the man asked him what he thought his name was. He wonders if that’s where this is going, and sees the way the blue eyes flash now like they did then and how the fire jumps in response.

“I dunno,” the teenager mutters, looking down shyly until Rick tilts his chin up with two fingers, cradling the underside of his jaw with one hand and keeping the other in his hair. He feels caught like this, but not in a way that makes him want to lash out or scramble away. There’s a security to the way this man touches him, like Daryl is something precious that he would never dream of harming. He’s never had anyone treat him so gently while at the same time admiring his strengths, finding the balance between them as easily as Daryl finds the balance in the forest.

“I think you do, my little hunter,” Rick murmurs as he leans in closer. Daryl feels his breath hitch and tilts his face up just a little more, his eyes fluttering closed when warm, soft lips press against his forehead.

“What would you like his name to be, Daryl?”

Shuddering, Daryl pushes himself up onto his knees and Rick mirrors him, his head just a little higher because he’s taller than Daryl is, and he finds that fitting. In no way should he ever be allowed to look down at Rick, because there’s something so fundamentally wrong with that picture that it makes him want to lay down on his belly just to remove any possibility of it happening.

“Rick,” he whispers, the name as light as a feather but the conviction with which he says it as strong as a mountain. “Want his name to be Rick. Want your name to be Rick.”

Rick smiles, and it’s brighter than anything the sun could ever hope to match. His hands slide to Daryl’s cheeks, cupping his face as another kiss is pressed to the center of his forehead.

“Who did you leave the offerings to, my gorgeous little hunter?”

“Left ‘em for you,” Daryl whines, surging up and wanting to be closer, wanting to touch, but letting his hands stay relaxed at his sides. He shuffles forward, the denim of his jeans scraping roughly against his knees, and Rick leads him with his hands still on Daryl’s face, guiding him closer until he can hide himself away in the strong line of the man’s throat and breathe in the scent of wild mint and the deeper musk of the forest.

“Why did you leave them for me?”

“’Cause I wanted to thank you for giving me food, and shelter.” Nuzzling against the pulse he can feel thrumming steadily against his cheek, he sighs out the words like a benediction, his confession absent of anything but his blossoming devotion. “You gave me a home when I’ve never had one; gave me food when others only ever wanted to take it away. You never hurt me, not once.”

“I never would, my little one.” Rick strokes a hand through his hair, pressing one last kiss to his temple before arranging them so that he’s sitting with his back against the tree and Daryl is curled up in his lap. It should feel awkward, like he’s being compared to a child, but he just feels safe and cared about in a way that is so new and foreign but already something he craves. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady thump of Rick’s beating heart as the man presses small pieces of meat to his mouth; feeding him and caring for Daryl physically the way his forest always has.

“Why’d you never show yourself before?” Daryl asks between bites, licking the juices from Rick’s fingers after every morsel and shuddering at the way a nail scrapes across his lower lip. The low thrum of arousal running through him should be distracting, and it should feel wrong, but Rick hums thoughtfully and brings another piece to his mouth and says nothing about the way Daryl sucks his fingers clean afterwards.

“You were not yet ready. I could not come before the right time, or you would never have returned to me. I did not want to scare you away, and so I watched and waited and I kept you safe.”

“How did you know I would ever accept this?” He feels a light pressure against the crown of his head and realizes that Rick has pressed a kiss into his hair. It fills him with warmth and contentment, and even though the desire is present as well, he doesn’t feel like doing anything about it.

“Because you have always left me offerings, ever since your first kill. I remember it because you were so young, and your brother laughed at you for it, but you put the creature’s liver and heart on a log and wouldn’t let him touch them.”

Leaning away slightly, Daryl turns so he can look up at Rick and see the serene smile on his face. One large, calloused hand rests against the side of his head. “You were so small,” Rick murmurs. “You could barely lift that bow on your own, and yet your first thought was not to feed yourself, but to leave something for me as thanks. I never forget my followers, Daryl, but there has never been one like you. I have been drawn to your light since the very beginning, my little hunter. It has not been easy for me, I will admit, because I am a moth longing to touch the flame when it comes to you. There were many times I wanted to reveal myself, but the thought of never seeing you walking through my woods and looking so at peace was enough reason for me to hold back until the time was right.”

Daryl wants to say he never would have run from Rick, but he knows that’s a lie. His first thought upon seeing the man had been to run, but something had kept him from doing so, and he is so thankful for that. If it had happened when he was younger, he _would_ have run, and he would never have come back.

“I’m glad you waited,” he whispers, closing his eyes and resting his head against Rick’s collarbone again. “Just promise you’ll never leave.”

“I will never abandon you, my little hunter,” Rick breathes, and when he tilts Daryl’s head back he feels no need to open his eyes, just lets himself be moved and parts his lips for the man when their mouths slide together. It feels like coming home, like everything negative can no longer touch him when there’s so much light and love wrapping him up in arms that are as strong as oak trees and more than capable of keeping him steady. He cracks one eye open, wanting to see Rick’s face, and feels the way the sunlight dapples across his skin as it shines down through the treetops and is broken by the strong, branching shadow of antlers. He closes his eye again, pressing closer, and wraps his arms around the man as their lips move together and he settles comfortably into the welcoming embrace of _home_.


End file.
